


Your Smile Makes My Soul Shine

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chloe KNOWS, F/M, Fluff, Humor, References to Paradise Lost, Then it developed feelings, To start with at least, Tumblr Prompt, this was supposed to be light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-28 05:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15701187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: After Chloe comes to terms with Lucifer's Luciferness, they decide to move forward with a romantic relationship.Unfortunately, Chloe has allowed Lucifer to keep the location of their first date a surprise, and with Lucifer, that means it could be quite literally anything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: suicide; it is mentioned in conversation in relation to a historical figure, and not to a main character.

“It’s a surprise…”

Had Malcolm never said ‘I have Trixie’, those would have been the three scariest words Chloe had ever heard.

After she had come to terms with Lucifer’s… complete and literal truthfulness, they had decided to, as he put it, ‘give it a go’. She had realized two vital pieces of information a little too late; namely that

  1. Lucifer had never been on a date before—‘never needed to before, darling’ slid annoyingly through her mind—and


  1. He had all the money in the world and absolutely no sense, which was a dangerous combination, especially when she had agreed to let him plan their date and then keep it as a ‘surprise’.



She groaned, rubbed her hand over her face; she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror: she’d messed up her makeup. She started reapplying it.

_Why did I agree to any of this?_

She blamed her temporarily terrible judgment on the soft, sweet way he had smiled when he’d asked her. It was so cute and unsure and _oh my G… Devil! What was she, twelve?_

Maybe his weird hypnosis thing had started affecting her; it was the only logical explanation.

She was shaken from her thoughts by the sound of the doorbell ringing—and wasn’t that a miracle in and of itself, that he was even bothering with it—double-checked her lipstick, and tried to hide her rising panic.

_It’s just Lucifer, how bad could it be?_

_It’s Lucifer, it could be anything._

At this point, she just hoped there weren’t any felonies involved. It’d also be nice if they didn’t leave the planet; she was pretty sure she didn’t have a fancy enough passport for Mars, plus Trixie would be disappointed she didn’t get to come.

Oh great, she was losing her mind. _Damn him and his earth-shattering weirdness and his strong, delicate hands and the lovely, filthy promises in his smirk._

Oh fuck; she was doomed, wasn’t she?

She managed to make it to the living room without falling over—savor the little victories—and discovered, belatedly, that while he _had_ rang the doorbell, that hadn’t stopped him from breaking into her house anyway.

He was standing there, watching her with a fond expression, dressed in a sleek tuxedo that seemed to be some shade beyond black that only people richer than God could afford, and holding a dozen roses. It was rather old-fashioned but, damn him it was working.

“Hello, darling,” his voice tingled up her spine.

She was so doomed.

_Buck up, Decker, be cool._ Oh, good, dating advice from Maze; that’d end well.

It was just Lucifer, it’d be fine, “Hey, Lucifer.”

He produced from behind his back a beautiful hand blown vase, “I thought you might need somewhere to put these,” he held the flowers up.

Chloe made herself step up to him, taking the roses and the vase, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.” His smile could have lit the stars.

She went into the kitchen to put the roses into the vase and give them some water; from the sink she could see him, fussing with his cuff links. Her awkwardness evaporated; he was nervous too, _thank G… Chr… somebody._ She could deal with this as long as he was as scared as she was.

_Hopefully not scared enough to run away again._ She hushed the rebellious voice in her head as she walked back to the door. He didn’t open it; he was weighing something in his mind.

He removed a small box from his jacket and held it out for her, “I… got you something.”

She took it from him; she had a brief flashback to Cain-who-must-not-be-named and another small jewelry box, but she shoved the memory down. She opened the box.

Inside was a pair of earrings; the small polished blue-green stones were delicately outlined in silver.

“I saw them and I… they reminded me of you. It’s jade… jadeite specifically.”

The stones were precisely the same color as her eyes.

She looked up at him, he was terrified, “I… they’re… perfect. Thank you.”

He shuffled his feet, “Would you…? I can…” he gestured awkwardly at them.

“Um… sure.”

The last person who helped her put on earrings was her mother, who absolutely insisted, when she was nine, that “no actress can audition without them. Absolutely necessary, now hold still, dear.” There had been blood.

Lucifer was infinitely gentler, handling both the jewelry and her ears as if they might shatter were he to move too fast. Chloe held her breath, shivers running down her back, as he carefully parted her hair, pulled down her earlobe, slid the earring in and clasped it. By the time he had finished with the second earring, she was almost shaking.

“There we are,” Lucifer stepped back, pulling the door open behind him. He held out a hand, “Shall we?”

She took it and he walked them unhurriedly to his car; he even opened her door for her, bowing his head slightly as she got in. She wanted to ask him what 50s style guide he had gotten all of this from, but there were more pressing questions.

“Where, exactly, are we going?”

“I told you, love, it’s a surprise!” he grinned over at her as he pulled out of the driveway. Being back on his turf had clearly done wonders for his confidence. At her concerned look, he continued, “I have planned nothing that you won’t enjoy; I swear it.”

She relented; he didn’t lie and while that didn’t mean he couldn’t be wrong about what she might actually like doing, it did at least mean that strip clubs and mildly illegal jaunts to Mexico were probably out of the question. Probably.

They appeared to be going to Hollywood. Chloe really hoped he hadn’t got them onto some movie set; as fun as that _might_ be, there were too many memories there that really didn’t need to be brought up. But they passed by all the studios and she instead found them parked outside…

“…an art museum?”

“ _The_ art museum, unless you only want contemporary art, and while I do enjoy many newer pieces, it does seem a bit… limited.”

She missed his remark; she was still staring at him, “You… art museum?”

He chuckled a little at her obvious confusion, “Darling, I’m only marginally younger than the universe; I have reached depths of boredom even I didn’t know exist. Besides which, when I was,” he flicked his eyes meaningfully upward, “art was my domain. No fall could change that.”

“I… guess I just never thought about it,” she felt a little ashamed, but he brushed her off unconcernedly.

“Wait,” he stopped midway through unbuckling his seatbelt, “How did you know _I_ like art?”

Art, and painting specifically, had been a relatively minor teenaged passion, but Chloe had considered art school for a while, before acting consumed everything else.

“Beatrice told me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she was showing me one of her drawings and said that she wanted to be an artist like you had wanted to be, when she wasn’t being a ninja-chemist-doctor-President-of-Mars, of course.”

Chloe nearly threw herself over the central console in her haste to kiss him. She drew back; he blinked at her, “What was that about?”

“Just… you listen to Trixie; I mean, really listen.”

“Well, of course, what else would I do?” he seemed genuinely perplexed. It was all Chloe could do to not throw herself at him again.

The one good thing about Lucifer’s complete bewilderment when it came to children was that he had eventually defaulted to treating Trixie just as seriously as anyone else, and rather more seriously than most people. Trixie would’ve worshiped the ground he walked on anyway, but it was good to know that he was actually trying to earn that admiration.

“Oh, no,” she pointed at her own lips, “I, uh… sorry.”

He looked in the side mirror, drew a white silk handkerchief from nowhere, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. He disappeared the handkerchief—where the hell did those things come from, or go?—and turned back to her, smiling, “It blends quite well with my own rouge, so that’s alright.”

He exited the car and moved to the passenger side to open her door for her. She took his proffered arm; of course he wasn’t going to freak out like… some guys might. He was Lucifer; he defined new limits of metrosexual and had probably been perfectly coiffing his air and wearing mascara longer than she’d been alive. She’d seen his bathroom; he had products even she hadn’t known the purpose of, and ‘hair and makeup’ had been the second most important lesson in ‘Penelope’s acting school’ right behind how to convince someone you hated that you actually really liked them.

She was wondering if he had some fancy spa on retainer and if he maybe wouldn’t mind doing that as a date—it had been a long time since she had let herself be pampered like that, too long probably—when she realized that she didn’t need to wonder.

“So…” they were just about to enter the building, “is there a… a spa you like to go to?” She was asking the literal Devil about where he went to get all spruced up; what even was her life? “I just,” she interrupted him before he could so much as raise an eyebrow, “thought it might be nice,” she finished weakly.

“Epione’s,” he pulled out his phone, “shall I make us an appointment for Saturday?” Chloe nodded. “Right, then,” he sent off a quick text, then stored his phone.

“Darling,” he stopped and she almost tripped, she looked up at him, “You don’t have to be so nervous, you know. I think this sort of conversation is supposed to happen on dates?”

He appeared to actually be seeking verification; she nodded again, more confidently, “Yeah, sorry, it’s just… me and dating aren’t the best of friends.”

“Well, dating and I are barely passing acquaintances, but,” he leaned toward her ear, “I’d very much enjoy getting to know it better.”

Chloe smiled and led them to the entrance to the museum proper. As they passed the donation box Lucifer removed several hundred dollar bills from his wallet and slid them in. The docent blinked at him, speechless, before reaching out a hand, “Hi, I’m Mr. Peters… Jason, uh… would you be interested in a private tour?” Mr. Peters… Jason was flushed and panting lightly. Lucifer frowned, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary; I have _intimate_ knowledge of the art in this gallery, but thank you,” he took his hand briefly, “for offering.”

Jason’s whole face had gone red and Chloe noticed, as Lucifer guided her to a room on the left, him gape at Lucifer’s retreating figure, shake his head and vanish into a nearby restroom.

“You didn’t have to break that poor guy.”

“Hmm?” Lucifer turned to her as he led them to a lovely impressionist triptych that filled a whole wall, “did I do something?”

_He really doesn’t do it on purpose; it just… happens._ Chloe wondered if she was ok with that.

“One of Monet’s Water Lilies, on loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I believe.” He smiled absently, “As beautiful as he was talented, but frustratingly heterosexual. Although, at least Clemenceau was always up for a good shag…” he lost himself to memories for a moment, before regarding her.

“Do you like the impressionists?”

She considered, “I don’t really know if I have an opinion. It’s been decades since I even thought about painting…” She glanced at the work in front of her; it was massive, spanning nearly fifty feet.

“Shall I… describe it to you as I see it?” She nodded. “Alright, stand here,” he shifted over so she could take his place, right in the center of the triptych. He stood behind her, leaning down to talk lowly in her ear. “Monet painted several hundred treatments of his garden at Giverny; one day we were standing on the bridge that spanned over the lily pond. He knew his life was coming to an end and I knew that he would soon find his place in heaven, so I asked him, ‘Why, Claude dear, have you spent twenty years painting the same subject?’ He laughed and replied ‘ahh, my good friend,’” his voice turned rough and raspy, “‘I have not, for the sun shines differently each day, and each day do my lilies whisper a new tale.’

“Now,” he stroked his hand down her back, the silky fabric of her dress sliding sweetly against her skin, “what story does this painting tell? Do you see the blush of pink that dominates the central panel?” she nodded, “while Monsieur Monet was first painting this particular canvas, he had quite severe cataracts, which tinted his vision red. However,” he turned her slightly,” the flowers on the side panels are deeper blue than those in the center. After having his vision corrected, he went back and painted over what he believed were mistakes.”

“I think the pink is… nice. It’s a good contrast.”

“Agreed, which is why I convinced him to let it be, ‘that was the tale your lilies told you that day,’ I said, ‘let them speak.’”

She looked at him, eyes soft and shining, “Do you have a story like this about every piece of art in here?”

“Well, not all of them, but I thought I might give you the highlights, so to speak. Why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she bumped against him as they moved to a different room. He really didn’t know how much him opening up meant to her; she endeavored to come up with a good way to show him.

They had gone through several rooms, both making occasional remarks, when Lucifer stopped in his tracks, a wicked grin on his face.

“Ooh, this is one of mine.”

He was studying a baroque painting, about five feet by four; the label proclaimed it: _Saint Sebastian, Reni, Guido, on loan from the Museo del Prado._ A young man, presumably Sebastian, was tied to a tree in the night, a single arrow protruding from his ribs. There was a cloth tied around his waist; it gave the impression that it was slipping down his hips.

“Those bastards!” she jumped; he was glaring now, “they raised some of the cloth up. How dare they?”

Chloe, privately, was not surprised; there was something strikingly erotic about the painting, even by the standards of 17th century Italian religious art. She blinked, didn’t he say something about ‘mine’… “Wait, did you paint this?”

His ire cooled; he smirked at her, “Oh, no I didn’t _paint_ this, I _modeled_ for it,” he laughed softly, “poor Guido never did know that the Devil was the model for his lovely saint.”

She examined the painting; the face wasn’t perfect, but it was fairly close, the body… she shoved down a blush that threatened her cheeks. Then her eyes settled on the hair.

He caught her staring, “I… it was the style,” she wasn’t sure she had seen him properly embarrassed before, “they were all absolutely obsessed with painting curls…”

She bit her lip, but couldn’t hold in the giggles.

He hid his face behind his hand, mortified.

“Would you ever—”

“I will _not_ grow it out,” he pouted, his resemblance to a certain first century saint increased tenfold.

“Not that, just… I haven’t seen it all curly, well, _ever_.”

He sighed, “Fine. But no pictures.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him away, laughing.

They had made it through most of the rooms by now and Chloe was starting to get hungry; her stomach made a quiet noise.

“I’ve made dinner reservations, for when we are done here. Very exclusive.”

A spike of nervousness hit her; what kind of place did _he_ consider exclusive, “What’s it called?

“The Penthouse.”

She had never heard of a place called… oh wait a minute; she looked up at him. He was badly concealing a grin. “Hmm. And what do they serve at this place?”

“Burgers, and fries. And…” his smile softened, “no interruptions, this time.”

Screw the last room, this was more important; Chloe was half-dragging him through the Post-Impressionists when he stopped, mid-stride, “Oh, Vincent.” His eyes were suddenly wet, and sad.

She followed him as he approached the portrait. _Eternity’s Gate_ , the label proclaimed, _Van Gogh, Vincent, on loan from the Kröller-Müller Museum._ An old man sat on a chair by a fire, distraught, head cradled in his hands.

“You knew him…”

“Yes,” Lucifer’s voice was rough; he cleared his throat, “deeply religious, but greatly indulgent; a bad combination.” He shook his head, “When I met him he was nearly thirty; he had been ill for many years. He had contracted an infection, from gonorrhea, and was, I presume, in a coma. I cannot be sure; I did not meet his body then, only his soul.”

“He went…?”

“To hell, yes. Guilt, as I’ve told you, is what traps one in hell, and he had guilt to spare. I had been out, walking the halls when I came across his door, entirely by accident. I was bored; I sought… entertainment.

“I found myself in a small, dirty room,” he gestured to the painting, “an old man sat on a wooden chair, his face twisted in despair.”

“But… this isn’t a self-portrait?”

“No. This man… Zuyderland I think his name was, was one of Vincent’s models. He lived in a home for the elderly in The Hague, I believe. But in his hell loop, he became this broken old man, ripping out what remained of his hair, while his true face—a reflection in a mirror—drank and smoked and mocked his artistic ambition, ‘Behold yourself, you wretched glutton; no one could never love something so base and sinful.’ It would torment him, compel him to throw himself into the flames; then it would laugh, tell him that his suicide did nothing but further condemn him to hell, in which he would be tortured for all eternity.

“I revealed myself to him; he collapsed at my feet, repenting every sin real or imagined. He saw things, he told me, out of the corner of his eye, in the darkness. Things than no one else could see; the worse sins but also the most glorious virtues, and all he wanted was to share those things he saw that were sublime.

“Had he been dead, sending him back would have been unthinkable; however, merely comatose, I had a little more leeway. So we made a deal: I would return him to life and, in exchange, he would paint. For however many years he had left, he would paint. Even if he was left destitute and begging, his paintings unsold, worth no more than firewood, he would paint.

“And maybe, if he was lucky, he might find redemption.”

Chloe was crying now, tears dripping unnoticed down her face, “And did he? Is… is he in heaven now?”

She had never seen him look his age, but now his eyes were ancient, fathomless in their sorrow. He jerked his head, “His illness worsened, undoubtedly aggravated by the nightmares that hell inspired. I made several trips to Earth to during the following decade, not to approach him—most people who know who I am don’t much enjoy my presence—but merely to… check up on him; I told myself it was to ensure he was not breaking his deal, but the truth is I desired his redemption. I had no wish to see him again in hell.”

Chloe took his hand; she couldn’t make the words come, but she hoped he understood.

His hand tightened around hers; he took a deep breath, let it out shakily, “I was on one of my visits when he severed his ear; I took the razor from him, bandaged the wound. He was conscious, but the pain, combined with my presence, had driven him even madder than before. I calmed his mind, made him to sleep; I removed the incident from his memory, hoping to restore some of his sanity.

“And he kept his promise; he continued to paint, even from the depths of his despair, and it was some of his best work,” he indicated the painting.

“But it didn’t last; not three months after completing this painting he was dead, fulfilling the promise of his hell loop: his suicide did nothing but further condemn him to hell, in which he will be tortured for all eternity.”

Chloe hesitated, “There was… nothing you could do?”

He stared intently at the floor, avoiding her gaze, “I tried, but… have I told you that the cells in hell are all unlocked?”

She shook her head.

“The damned souls are bound by nothing but their guilt, but guilt is all they have. No human has ever escaped.”

Chloe pulled him into a hug, cradling his head in her hands. He shuttered in her arms for a long moment, then withdrew slightly; she smiled at him through her tears.

“Let’s go home; I hear there’s burgers.”

“And fries?” he asked, as he followed her out of the museum, followed her anywhere she wished to take him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of my continuing adventures trying to write fluff, but getting kinda angsty anyway! I’ve bumped the rating up to M, but mostly as a precaution.

Dinner had been… wonderful, but surprisingly chaste; Lucifer had walked her to her door afterward and kissed her, gently, in the threshold. She had wanted to invite him in, but before she could he had smiled lovingly, said, “Goodnight, darling,” and left.

Saturday came almost too quickly, and Chloe found herself staring into her closet, trying to figure out what she should wear to the kind of high-class spa that Lucifer frequented.

_Damn, she really needed this, didn’t she?_

Trixie was sitting against the closet door, digging through her shoes. “You should wear these,” she held up a pair of sparkly sandals Chloe had forgotten she even owned.

“Those are really nice, monkey; I’ll put them on.”

Trixie was preparing to dig into Chloe’s dress collection—small as it was—when the doorbell rang; she ran downstairs, shouting, “Lucifer!”

Chloe gave her half-filled bag a dirty look, sighed and followed Trixie down to the living room.

_Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous._

She froze on the bottom stair. _Fuck._

He was dressed in a soft white button down, pale khaki trousers and brown suede loafers; his hair was ungelled, curls framing his face as he crouched down to listen to Trixie enthuse about her science project.

“…and Mrs. Ramirez says if you match how bright the stars are and how hot they are, you can find out how far away they are. Isn’t that cool?”

“Which star cluster is she having you study?”

“The plades? Plodes?”

“Pleiades?”

“Yeah! You…” Trixie hesitated, “you made them right? The internet said you did.”

“Indeed. I made them all, but I remember those well. Shall I tell you the story?”

Trixie nodded enthusiastically.

“Azrael—Ray-Ray—my sister, was having a… terrible millennium. Some of our brothers were picking on her and she was upset.”

“What were they saying?”

“Well, Michael was making fun of her wings; his are big and gold but hers are smaller and brown—personally, I always liked hers better—but he said it made her weaker than him and Gabriel.”

“But that’s mean!”

“Michael always was an arsehole,” Trixie giggled, “anyway; Ray-Ray went and hid, far away from the Silver City.”

“Is she as good at hide-and-seek as I am? Nobody ever finds me.”

“Nearly,” he chuckled, wistfully, “but I could always find her, no matter how far she went.”

Trixie lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I always hide behind the hot water heater—don’t tell anybody—where’d she hide?”

Lucifer grinned, “Behind a black hole; she would skirt the edge of the event horizon. There’s a place where no one can see you, but you don’t get pulled in.

“So I flew across the cosmos and found the black hole she was hiding in, and said, ‘Little sister, why don’t you come out?’” he pitched his voice higher; he sounded younger, gentler.

“But Azrael was crying and she didn’t want me to see, so she told me, ‘Go away, brother; Michael’s right, my wings _are_ little and ugly.’”

“But they weren’t; I’m sure they weren’t!”

“And that’s what I said, but she didn’t believe me. So I did the only thing I could think of.”

“What?”

Lucifer pointed at Trixie’s star chart, “I wove a tapestry of stars—blue and bright and hot—thousands and thousands of them, one for every feather. And when I finished I called to Azrael, ‘Look, Ray-Ray, come look at your wings! They are larger and more beautiful than any of our siblings’.’”

Trixie gasped, “Did she like them?”

Lucifer hummed, “I think so.”

“Wow. I wish _I_ had a big brother like that!”

Lucifer blushed; honest-to-definitely-not-God blushed. He seemed to be totally speechless and Chloe was about to rescue him from his feelings, or at least the situation, when Trixie continued, “I bet it’s cool to have wings; I wish I had some…”

Lucifer blinked, then tilted his head, considering. “I don’t think I can manage that, but,” he reached behind his back for a moment; when his hand reappeared he was holding a single gently glowing feather, small and fluffy, “I want you to have this.”

Trixie, awed, took the feather carefully; she stared at it, “It’s so beautiful, Lucifer. Thank you!” She dragged him into a hug; he, for once, took it in stride, stroking her hair, idly.

He withdrew. “Keep it with you always,” he instructed, “if you are harmed, press it against the wound and it will heal you. If you are in danger, whisper to it and I will hear you.

“And,” he looked at her seriously, “you must not show it to anyone; promise me.”

Trixie put her arm across her chest, her hand in a fist; it reminded Chloe of something she’d seen Maze do once, “I swear; I won’t show anybody.”

Chloe made some shuffling noises on the stairs and Lucifer stood quickly; his cheeks were still faintly pink, “Darling!”

“Hey,” she gestured to her pajamas, “I uh, still need to get dressed, but I’ll only be a minute.” She turned, heading back up the stairs when Lucifer interrupted her.

“I, er… got you something,” he produced from behind his back a large, flat box, holding it out.

Trixie trembled with excitement as Chloe took the box from him; she opened it. It was a wrap dress, white with a subtle floral pattern; she blinked, “It’s… beautiful, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Chloe,” Lucifer murmured; the fabric was so soft under her fingers…

She cleared her throat, tearing her eyes from his and turning them on Trixie, “Monkey, are you packed for when Dad gets here?”

“Yeah…?”

She snorted fondly, “You should probably go do that, then.”

As Trixie ran off to her bedroom, Chloe looked back at Lucifer; she shook the box slightly, “I’m gonna… go change. I’ll be right down.”

“Of course,” he settled on the couch, pulling out his phone.

Chloe took the stairs two at a time, threw her pajamas on the floor and slipped into the dress; it fit perfectly.

She grabbed a towel out of the en suite—checking her minimal makeup as she passed the mirror—and threw it into her beach bag.

Her heart was fluttering; _how is it that he still makes me feel like a teenager on her first date?_

He had been so careful with her since she finally understood who he was. Sweet, almost… subdued; and while she knew he still had more than his fair share of sharp edges—and she thought she was ready to accept all of them, all of him—she couldn’t deny that this new, more emotionally aware Lucifer wasn’t… nice.

He’d let his hair down, quite literally, and she was dying to get into those curls. Figuratively, not literally, of course.

Yeah… even _she_ didn’t believe that lie.

She was making her way back downstairs when the doorbell rang for a second time.

Dan. Shit.

His and Lucifer’s relationship had been contentious since Charlotte; Dan still didn’t have the full picture and it hadn’t taken much convincing on Lucifer’s part for Chloe to agree that showing him now would do more harm than good.

She’d known that Lucifer and Dan were inevitably going to see each other today, but she’d been so distracted by the warmth in her chest and the grin that refused to go away that she hadn’t properly prepared for diffusing their non-work interactions.

Lucifer, feet in front of her, opened the door. “Hello, Daniel,” his voice had lost its uncharacteristic gentleness, but at least he wasn’t being impolite, yet.

Dan did not reply; he stood, frozen on the threshold. Trixie’s hug around his legs and her enthused shriek of, “Daddy!” broke him out of his trance.

“Hey, monkey!” he smiled down at Trixie, but his eyes flicked, involuntarily, back to Lucifer.

“I’ll go get my bag!” Trixie ran off again.

“You…” Dan cleared his throat, “I didn’t know you owned clothes that weren’t a suit.”

“Yes, well, I can’t wear one all the time,” Lucifer stepped back awkwardly, giving Dan space to move into the room; he caught Chloe’s eye and relief settled over his shoulders.

“Hey, Dan.”

“Hey, Chlo,” he was nervously toying with Charlotte’s waffle bracelet; what was Trixie _doing?_

The silence was rather pained.

Lucifer sighed, “Daniel…” but thankfully Trixie chose that moment to spring back into the room, grab her father’s hand and half drag him to his car, chattering excitedly; apparently Dan had promised the zoo _and_ chocolate cake. They heard the engine rumble as he pulled away.

“D’you like it?” Lucifer mumbled.

Chloe blinked, confused, before meeting his eye; he was looking at her intently, although not with the carnality she was expecting. He seemed anxious again.

_We are so ridiculous._

“Yeah, it’s… actually really comfortable,” she had been somewhat concerned; in her experience, couture brands didn’t much bother with that sort of thing.

“Lovely,” he shook his head slightly, then proffered his arm, “shall we?”

He led her to his car, again, opening the door for her, also again. She laughed as he settled in the seat next to her, starting the engine, “What?”

“This is all very… chivalrous of you.”

He frowned at her, “Is this not… am I doing something wrong?”

“No, of course not. It’s just… a little old-fashioned, maybe.”

He smirked, “I think old-fashioned might be underselling it somewhat, love.”

He pulled out of her driveway; she flinched.

_He’s older than the Earth. He’s older than the stars! How could I date him? How could I… love him?_

Her sudden hysterical laughter bubbled up from her chest; she couldn’t stop. _You’re an ant under his fancy loafers_ ; it sounded like Marcus, like Cain. _You were nothing to me; you’re less to him, just a… momentary distraction._ The voice shifted; it was Dan now, snarling like he had in their worst fights, right before the separation. _You weren’t even enough for me, how could you possibly be enough for him?_

She faintly heard what sounded like tires screeching over the angry voices in her head.

“…darling.”

“Detective?”

“Chloe!”

She came back to herself, slowly; Lucifer was leaned halfway across the center console; his hands were inches from her and shaking like he was trying to decide whether touching her would help or not. She pressed her arm against his fingers; they were warm and comfortingly solid as he tightened them around her, stroking her wrist slowly.

“Are you alright, love?” his voice was so sweet she felt her heart clench with embarrassment; she nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he started driving again, but put on the turn signal, clearly intending to pull into a parking lot.

“I… no, it’s _stupid_.”

“Feelings,” he turned to her, stern, “are _not_ stupid.” He may have been even more surprised than she was at his words.

“You should give Linda a raise.”

He refocused on the road, “Indeed. So…?”

“Just old insecurities that got brought up again by, you know,” she shrugged, “the last couple months have been… hard.”

He took her hand as they accelerated onto the highway, “I’ve no intention to make anything more difficult for you. If you would like to slow down, just say the word.”

She stared at their clasped hands, lost in thought. They sat in silence for several long minutes. She shook herself, “I’m ok, it’s just… I worry sometimes that I’m not, well, _enough_. I mean, you’re so… and I’m just—”

The tires squealed as Lucifer abruptly parked; they had apparently arrived while Chloe was waffling.

He spun in his seat to face her; he met her eye, “You are not _enough_ , darling, you are… _everything._ ”

Her breath caught; his earnestness made her shudder. “If you require a more… formal declaration,” he smiled, but his expression was more serious than she had ever seen it, “I will be faithful in any way you desire for as long as you’ll have me. You are worth waiting an eternity for. How lucky I am that I only had to bear the years I did.

“Now, he opened his door, “I believe I promised you a day at the spa?”

She was speechless as he led her through the chestnut doors.

*   *   *

Three hours later, Chloe had been pampered and steamed and soaked to a level of relaxation she hadn’t believed existed. Latoya, the owner, had done her manicure personally—Lucifer had helped her out of a bad situation and provided the seed money for the business—and had sent her best pedicurists and aromatherapists for her “best customer.” After a light, yet somehow still indulgent lunch, Lucifer led them back to a massage room.

There was only one table.

Lucifer shifted awkwardly, “I was, er… would you permit me to be your masseur?”

“You don’t want a massage?”

“I don’t…” he winced, “receiving intimate, nonsexual touch is… difficult for me.”

She stepped up to him, caressed his cheek, “I’d love a massage from you.”

He nodded, relieved, “Right,” he turned from her and stood facing the wall, shoulders hunched, dimming the lights.

_Was he…?_

Chloe steeled herself, “You don’t have to look away, if you don’t want?”

His back twitched; he shuffled his feet. Chloe had already started on her dress when he worked up the nerve to turn around; the fabric slipped from her hands, sliding to the floor.

He blinked at her underclothes before taking a hesitant step forward; she held her breath as he carefully approached. He leaned down and laid a soft kiss on her sternum, where Cain’s henchman’s bullet had impacted with her bulletproof vest; the bruise had long since faded. It still ached a little when it was touched—probably more psychosomatic than anything else—but the hint of pain from his lips was the sweetest thing she had ever felt.

He straightened; she shivered, but her hands were sure as she unclasped her bra. She put it on the small side table then picked up her dress with her foot and placed it on top. She glanced at Lucifer; his eyes were dark, but there was no sly grin on his face, no innuendo on his tongue. Only his breathing, deep and even; she reached for her underwear, “You don’t ha—” but his voice died in his throat as she slipped it off and added it to the small pile.

She took his hand in hers and pressed it softly against her chest, between her breasts, “It’s ok, Lucifer.” He pulled his hand away, not unkindly, and gestured to the massage table.

She lay down, mindful of her collarbone. He handed her a small pillow; she arranged it carefully, then pressed herself fully onto the table. He covered her up to mid-back with a velvety towel. There was the sound of a cap being opened, “Is there anywhere I shouldn’t touch?”

“Well, you know where I’m ticklish…?”

He snorted, relieving the tension, “Yes, I’m _well aware_ , love.”

“So, unless you want me to accidentally kick you—”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” she could _hear_ his smug smirk. Mildly annoyed, she swiftly kicked a foot out, not to hit, just to startle him a little. He caught her by the heel, easily, hand snapping out with a nearly audible whoosh of air; he laughed, full-throated, “you’re _adorable_ when you’re irritated with me.”

She pouted, opening her mouth to complain, but his grip turned into purposeful strokes, pressing into her arch, “oh… _shit_ ,” she sighed. His fingers were masterful and warm, and when his second, oiled, hand joined his first she bit her lip to hold in a breathy moan. He worked up to her ankle before repeating the motions on her other foot; she whimpered softly as he released tension that was so ever-present she had forgotten it was even there.

He worked his way up her legs—she’d had no doubts that he would be good at this, but she had clearly not been _prepared_ —and, had she had less dignity, she wouldn’t have been able to suppress the whine in her throat as he abandoned her lower thighs to slide up her back, pulling the towel back down and brushing her hair to the side. Not that his hands on her shoulders were any less sinful.

She was distracted from her musings by the rumble of his voice at her ear as he pressed his thumbs down the sides of her spine, “Is this… satisfactory?” The arrogance was gone; he panted softly against her neck and she found it heartening that he was not unaffected by their proximity.

“It’s… divine,” his hands spanned her back, edging lower, heating the skin that had cooled in the relative chill of the room; she groaned, muffled against the table.

He was rubbing her hips now, loosening stress with slow, hard strokes, fingers digging into her flesh. She shifted her thighs, settling deeper into the cushions, and she could feel her arousal building precipitously.

He reached the curve of her ass and withdrew hastily, massaging her arms instead, but the location hardly seemed to matter anymore, every touch sent her deeper into a lovely haze.

“Could you… flip over so I can reach…” he trailed off; he sounded embarrassed again, but Chloe couldn’t see his face—even when she turned onto her back, not even bothering with the towel—her eyelids were too heavy to move. He inhaled sharply as she moved and she let her thighs rub together again, humming deep in her chest.

He squeezed more oil into his hands; his fingertips were gentle on her clavicle, trailing down her sides and pressing carefully against her ribs, massaging gentle circles into her abdomen. He framed her hips in his hands for a moment before he returned to her legs.

She convinced her eyes to flutter open; his shined with moisture in the semidarkness, stars in the vastness of space. He caught her gaze; he blinked, tears slipping down his cheeks. He stood over her, hands frozen on her thighs.

“That…” he shuddered, fingers trembling against her,

> “That scant eternities have spanned
> 
>   Each moment in your grace;
> 
>   Your verdant smile, your gentle hand
> 
>   My soul’s despair efface.”

She leaned up, gripping his arm and caressing his cheek; he kissed her then, slowly but so thoroughly she felt it to the base of her spine. One hand splayed across her back; the other painted intricate patterns against her hip. Her hand, still touching his face, wove into his hair, teasing the curls wilder as his tongue stroked against the roof of her mouth. She was digging her fingers into his shoulders, trying to push him _down_ when a soft but insistent melody reverberated off the walls; their time, apparently, was up.

He withdrew, reluctantly, breath hot and fast against her lips; she buried her face into his chest, clutching at him, grasping for composure. He ran his fingers through her hair before pulling away to give her space to dress.

Fully clothed again, she nearly chuckled—the tension threatened to tighten her muscles back up—but when she glanced at him she saw that his eyes were still wet and dark and deep.

They were both subdued as he led them back to his car, any further plans abandoned for the solemnity that still clung to him. He drove them back to her house in silence; she expected him to disappear as soon as she left the car, hide from her, from his feelings, but he leapt from his seat the moment he pulled into her driveway, walked her to her door.

She reached for her keys but his words interrupted her, “I… apologize. I don’t believe these date-things are supposed to end in…” he gestured vaguely at himself, unable or unwilling to explain the emotions that had arisen.

“It’s… alright,” and it was; it wasn’t perfect or easy or comfortable, yet, but, “I had a good time.”

“I… I’m glad.”

“And thank you,” she flushed, the heat returning as strong as before, “for the massage.”

He nodded then asked, abruptly, “May I kiss you?” He flinched; seduction was easy for him, but this was not that, was not something he seemed to understand.

_Actions are easier than words._

She flung her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her, lips against lips; he reciprocated, pressing her against the door, kiss all-consuming, burning with words unsaid. She trembled with his intensity, clutched at where his scars had been, and just when she was about to unlock the door behind her back, drag him into the living room and offer anything, everything he wanted, he broke the kiss, smiled, chaste despite his harsh breathing, said, “Have a good evening, darling,” and walked away, back to his car.

She let him leave her aching and wanting on her doorstep for a second time; next time, she thought as she unlocked the door and shut it behind her, next time she would get him across the threshold.

_What was that rule about third dates, again?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 3, (probable) sexy times, dealing with Lucifer’s codependency problems, and Chloe discovers that lifelong inadequacy issues don’t actually go away just because you’ve got a really awesome boyfiend (this was a typo, but I obviously can’t not share it now).
> 
> I hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: depersonalization, discussed

Dinner. Friday.

Chloe spent nearly a whole week alternating between excitement and anxiety. Of course, they saw each other every day in between—Lucifer had even shown up Sunday morning with what she suspected were homemade muffins—but, despite her concerns, he had been a complete professional. Or, at least, as professional as he normally was; no inappropriate touches, not even his newfound gentleness followed him to the precinct.

They had been investigating the sudden, unexpected death of a rich patriarch and, between enough familial drama for a whole season of a soap opera, Lucifer’s increasingly snide comments about powerful fathers, and Chloe’s continuing mild panic about his true identity, she was absolutely desperate for a long weekend rest.

But, she had a date first and, hopefully, a little more; Trixie was with Dan for the weekend and she really wanted to try one of his omelets.

She had insisted on keeping things casual, to the point that they headed to the restaurant directly from the station; it wasn’t half as glamorous as the sort of places Lucifer frequented, but they had the best tamales in the city.

Chloe parked in the small lot in front of Mama Dominga’s; Lucifer scrutinized the cracked concrete of the strip mall that also contained a furniture rental store and a dayglow orange storefront advertising ‘masages: $30 for 1 hr’.

“This place is great, I promise,” her voice lowered as they went in, “my dad used to bring me when I was a kid.”

He smiled, “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

Mama Dominga no longer worked at the restaurant, but her daughter, Felicidad, still ran the tiny kitchen, packed with innumerable cousins and spicy smelling steam. She saw them through the service window and wandered over to their chosen table. “Chloe, querida!” Felicidad pulled her out of the booth into a hug, “and who is this young man?” She eyed him, enthralled; he preened, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Me llamo Lucifer, señora.”

She looked at Chloe, confused; she blushed, “He… owns a nightclub.”

“Ah, the singer. My Jacinta said you were the perfect gentleman.” She turned to Chloe, “The usual?” she nodded, “And for your friend?”

Lucifer blinked, “I… er, the same thing she orders.”

“Of course,” she swept away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

They were stuck staring at each other until a nervous looking young man approached, placing two horchatas, a basket of chips and some salsa on the table between them before fleeing for the kitchen.

Lucifer averted his gaze and took a chip; Chloe bit her lip, “So, Jacinta?”

He sighed, “It was three years back, I believe. How much detail would you like?”

“Three… wow; she must’ve been memorable,” she hated the bitterness in her voice, but couldn’t hold the words in.

“Not particularly.”

“Then why—”

“I do _not_ forget them, any of them. I would _never_.” He shifted uncomfortably, taking another chip. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched and Chloe finally understood what Dan had told her after the case with the stewardess; they were _all_ important to him. She had been afraid of being just a notch on his bedpost, but that was impossible. _He_ saw all of them; it was _they_ who hadn’t seen him.

She took his free hand in hers; their eyes met, “Tell me about her?”

His mouth twisted; he pulled back, “I’ve no interest in whatever game you’re playing at; their desires are not _sport_ to me.”

“No, I…” she reached across the table, touching his cheek. He flinched; her hand dropped, “Never mind, it’s… never mind.”

The tension was broken by Felicidad, setting large plates in front of both of them; piping hot tamales lay in green chili gravy, surrounded by softly glistening black beans, “Enjoy!” She returned to the kitchen. Chloe dug in, head down; she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Lucifer pick up his fork and spin it idly between his fingers.

He cleared his throat, “She was, she had been engaged…” Chloe felt the bitterness rise again; she tried to smother the taste with tamale. “She’d found her fiancé in bed with another woman and, after taking a baseball bat to his car, ended up at Lux in an attempt, I imagine, to drown her sorrows. I am a… convenient lake in which to sink.”

Chloe could see them, now: Jacinta—tear-soaked, mascara-streaked, a little unsteady on her feet—pulling at Lucifer’s shirt, pawing at his chest, dragging him into the elevator, “ _I want you; tell me you want me._ ”

A lowly mortal before an angel, falling to her knees in supplication, “ _I don’t want to think; just make me feel, please…_ ” but it wasn’t Jacinta kneeling now. The hair was blonde, the voice familiar, pleading, “ _Tell me I’m enough; I need you_.”

That was it. Her eyes snapped back to his, her fork falling to her plate; that was what he saw when he looked at anyone, even her.

_I need you._

It was a nice thing to hear, unless it was all you heard.

_I want you._

_Jesus_ , no wonder he was afraid; had anyone ever seen him as a _person_? Not just a… pair of hands on their skin; a well-formed body to paint. Salvation from the sky; a monster in the dark.

_None of them had ever even noticed the scars._

He was saying something; she could see his lips moving, but her ears were pounding with static. She stood; the table wrenched sideways, but he caught it, steadying it. She grabbed him by the arm, dragging him through the room, out the door, down a private seeming alleyway, bathed in semi-darkness; she pushed him up against the bricks.

His eyes were dark, with concern, with lust; but there was the tiniest bit of resignation too, mingling with the desire, and her heart broke to see it. “Chloe?” he was breathless, posing for her like it was the only thing he could think to do.

“Show me,” her voice was hard; her façade was too fragile for weakness and she _had_ to do this now.

“What?” he was smiling; it was the fakest grin she’d ever seen.

“Show me _you_ , all of you; I…” the façade snapped; her voice cracked, “I _need_ you to show me.”

She understood now. This _unbrokenness_ was nothing but a mask to keep her from running; he still didn’t, _couldn’t_ believe she would accept him. Of course he thought she was _everything_ ; he wouldn’t allow himself to hope for anything else. He was shaking; the wall was the only thing holding him up now. Fear of rejection, and of disappointing her, battled on his face; he looked so much like a kicked puppy she nearly cried.

_This is cruel._

_This is necessary._

His composure shattered in a harsh breath; he growled, dangerous and so low she felt it vibrate the ground. “You are so… difficult,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “You… human… how _dare_ you?”

“You don’t scare me,” this was hardly the first time he had lashed out, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine,” he spat. There suddenly wasn’t enough air in the alley; all the sunlight had fled. There was only fire and fear and endless night; he slipped from the wall, towering over her, bringing Hell with him. “Is this what you wanted?” he bared his teeth, staring into her eyes, “Well, here I am!”

He threw his arms wide, daring her to run, to draw her ever-present sidearm and make everything so much simpler; instead she glared at him, “I said _all_ of you.”

He blinked; the fire in his eyes dimmed to a simmer, “What?”

“All,” she crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“I…” even without skin she still, somehow, saw him pale, “That’s not… I didn’t want…”

“I know,” her expression softened. She cradled his face in her hands; it was smoother than she had expected. If he’d still had eyelashes, they would have fluttered as he unconsciously leaned into her touch. “I don’t want you to hurt,” she whispered, “I only wanted to show you that I see you, _all_ of you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a sudden, violent shudder; the alley was now suffused in a soft, celestial glow as he pulled away from her, splaying his wings against the wall. “You,” he shivered, horror and self-hatred apparent even on this face, “you make me wish I’d never fallen.” He slid down the wall, wings disappearing, skin returning; he landed on his knees, in the dirt. His eyes were fixed, vacantly, on the ground, “I don’t know who I am without you anymore…”

She crouched next to him, wrapping her arms around him, “There is _nothing_ you are that you weren’t before. I think I just… reminded you.”

He sniffed, but returned the embrace, “I am _not_ an angel; I will not be my Father’s automaton.”

She withdrew, “You’re not; look at me, Lucifer,” he gazed up at her, his eyes wet, “You aren’t his anything; you aren’t _my_ anything. You are yours and yours alone.”

He was staring at her, shocked, like this was an entirely novel concept and she was struck by an intense desire to punch his Dad in the face were they ever to meet. He shook his head, chuckling and she thought for a moment that he might have read her mind. “All I ever wanted was to be my own man here and,” he took her hands, standing them both up, “as it turns out, all I had to do was let myself be someone else’s.”

She frowned, opening her mouth, but he cut her off, “Don’t worry, love. I know what you meant; ultimately, I am mine and mine alone, but,” he smiled genuinely, “I understand now that there is a difference between subjugation and devotion and,” he kneeled, again, at her feet, “I willingly devote myself to you.”

She tugged him back up to her, capturing his lips; he pressed her against the wall, burying one hand in her hair while the other held her to him by the hip. Her hands roamed over his back and she moaned softly against his mouth before he pulled back.

They panted together and he laughed, delightedly; he offered her his arm, “Now, I think there is some food in there that’s probably getting cold; shall we?”

Thankfully, tamales were designed to stay warm for a long time; also thankfully, Felicidad refrained from asking where they had gone only to return breathless, pink-cheeked and covered in dust.

Chloe may never be able to look her in the eye again, but she couldn’t say it wasn’t worth it.

*   *   *

After dinner, Chloe drove them back to her house; Lucifer walked her to the door, as he had after their last two dates, but this time…

“Do you want to come in?”

He smiled sweetly, “I would love to.”

She poured them some wine as he leaned against the bar, watching her with his dark eyes; she offered him a glass. He took it, drinking deeply, “I have had thousands of wines, you know,” he lifted his glass, toasting, “yet none as sweet as your lips.” She snorted; his face twisted, “What?”

“You might,” she plucked the glass from his hand, setting it on the bar, next to hers, “be a few millennia out-of-date on the flirting front.” She wrapped her arms around his neck; he framed her hips in his hands, leaning down to press a kiss behind her ear.

“Am I?” he whispered against her skin, “It seemed to work last time.” His mouth trailed down to her neck, sucking and biting lightly.

She hummed, leaning back against the bar, “I think it’s the accent; everything sounds better when _you_ say it.”

“Hmm… perhaps I should try a different one, then? Make sure it’s me you like, not just this voice?” he teased, mumbling against her skin.

She tilted her head, giving him more room to work, “Just not that American accent; it’s awful.”

He unbuttoned his vest, slowly sliding it down his arms, expression thoughtful; _it’s unfair how attractive that is._ He smiled at her, then, with far too little apparent guile to be trustworthy, “Les étoiles se reflètent pour former tes yeux,” he unfastened his cufflinks, eyes gleaming, “Laisse-moi vivre dans leur lumière sacrée.”

“That’s just cheating,” she caught his hands at his collar, stilling them, “do you know every language?” She began unbuttoning his shirt, fingertips caressing his chest.

He bit his lip, eyes closing, “Mm hmm; it was important, in Hell.”

“What did you say?” she reached the last button, slipping the shirt off his arms, onto the floor.

He hissed as her fingers toyed with his belt, “The stars reflect to form your eyes; let me live in their sacred light.” Her breath caught, her fingers freezing; he chuckled, “Not so corny now?”

She pulled her blouse over her head, throwing it behind her, somewhere; she shivered in the sudden cold until he swept her into his arms, “Do you have any pickup lines from this century?”

He nuzzled against her neck, carrying them to her bedroom, “Not really, no; why don’t you try?”

He set her, gently, on her bed; she panted. “Well, there _is_ one…” she smirked at him.

He narrowed his eyes, frowning; realization dawned on his face, “Dad-dammit, not _that_ one!”

“Yep,” she yanked her shoes and socks off, dropping them off the side of her bed. She started on her pants.

He shuddered, comically, at the end of her bed, undoing his belt; he covered his face with his hand, sighing dramatically, “Fine. Just get it over with.” His trousers slipped down his hips.

She propped herself up on a few pillows, leering in an eerie impression of his own seductive grin, “Did it hurt…”

“So godawful…” he muttered, removing his oxfords, pulling his slacks the rest of the way off.

Chloe giggled at his feigned horror, “When you fell…”

“Unoriginal rubbish, as if I don’t hear it twice a day…” he crawled up her bed, sliding against her.

Their eyes met, faces inches apart. “From Heaven?” her voice dropped to a whisper.

He leaned down, lips against her ear as he traced along her bra with a heated hand, “So bloody much, love. And yet,” he undid the clasp, disentangling the garment from her and tossing it aside, “how can I not be happy with my lot?” He kissed and licked at her, groaning against her skin.

She gasped, fingers coming up to tangle in his hair, “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, right?”

He mouthed down her stomach, tugging down her underwear, “Better to reign nowhere,” he gazed up at her, enraptured, “and serve you.” Her fingers tightened against his scalp as he knelt down to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our poor babies and their deep-seated emotional problems; at least they're working on them now.
> 
> This fic began as a lighthearted prompt and became the angsty mess that this is. I think I'm gonna try some songfics next.
> 
> I hope this was a satisfying conclusion!

**Author's Note:**

> From luciferprompts: Lucifer takes Chloe on an art exhibition date but spends the whole time enjoying her enjoyment of and reactions to the art.
> 
> Monet's Water Lilies: https://www.moma.org/collection/works/80220
> 
> Reni's Saint Sebastian: https://www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/saint-sebastian/d98d334e-a7f4-44eb-9d7c-7cfc689a6d5b
> 
> Van Gogh's At Eternity's Gate: https://www.vincentvangogh.org/at-eternitys-gate.jsp
> 
> Somehow these sweet, light prompts keep picking up feelings and angst and tears.


End file.
